Tips
by Jinx135
Summary: One-shot. T.K. finds refuge in an old gas station after running away from home.


_**A/N:** Rated T for language and references to alcoholic beverages. I don't own these characters or Digimon._

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The dingy shoulder on the highway road caught the backlash of the wind the racing cars supplied and made it nearly impossible to travel on without being swept over a couple of feet each time a car passed, especially when you were as light as T.K. was. The bone-chilling rain and the slippery surfaces the rain created were already too much to deal with for the young fugitive. Looking through the icy droplets, he spotted a gas station's lights ahead-- the first building for miles.

Coming closer to the warm glow, T.K. realized the gas station was about as dingy and windswept as the shoulder itself. Its neon sign hung lopsided, looking as though it had given up an already lost battle, and the lights inside the store flickered on and off periodically, making it look more and more like a haven to the Texas Chainsaw Massacre's Leatherface.

T.K. shoot his head. He was in Tokyo-- or somewhere outside of it. No where near Texas. He shook his head again and reprimanded himself. He really needed to stop watching those late night scary movie marathons.

Taking a deep breath and a glance around the deserted parking lot, T.K. pushed open the door into the shabby shack of a gas station.

"Need somethin'?" The elderly man behind the cash register put down his newspaper and studied T.K. shrewdly, taking no care to hide that he thought T.K. was trouble.

_Well, I guess I am, being a runaway and all, _T.K. chuckled darkly to himself. _No need to deny it._

Taking a better look around, T.K.'s eyes wandered to a half disintegrated sign that read, "BEER: $2.99."

He shifted through his pockets, counting quarters with his fingers. Even though he was underage and morally sound, he would've been a complete idiot to pass up such cheap beer.

He turned to the cashier and held out his change. "I'll take a beer, please," he said, motioning to the sign with a tilt of his head.

The cashier looked at him, then at his money, then back at him. "Uh-huh," he said, slowly taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his shirt. He looked tired and overworked, like he had done many physically and mentally challenging jobs in his life. "Son," he sighed, still looking down at his glasses, "how dumb do you think I am?"

"Um..." T.K. wrapped his fingers around the money in his palm and looked around nervously. He didn't like where this was going.

"Do you really think I'm going to sell beer to a minor?" The old man shrewdly looked up at T.K. from his glasses cleaning.

T.K. stuck his chin out. "I'm not a minor."

He was given a doubtful look in return.

"Well," T.K. shuffled nervously from side to side, "I might be a minor, but not really that young. Only one or two years under the age limit." _Or like four or five._

"Mmm," grunted the cashier.

"A-and you know," T.K. went on, "you need the money. I mean no offense, but this place isn't exactly the Plaza, you know?" He gave the man a brittle smile. "I won't tell if you won't, okay?"

The old man sighed and put his glasses back on the tip of his nose. "Son, do you know how long I'd go to jail for selling alcoholic beverages to minors?"

T.K. felt as though the money in his hand weighed a hundred pounds. "No, sir."

"Too long," the cashier answered for him. "And I really don't give a damn what this place looks like as long as it still brings in customers."

T.K. withdrew his outstretched hand and studied the ground, ashamed. "Yes, sir."

A moment of silence passed between them. Finally, the old man sighed and said, "Tell ya what, you look like you've had a hard day already, and a harder day ahead of ya. Why don't I go get you a soda pop out of the 'frigerator in the back, free of charge."

T.K.'s head snapped up. "Free of charge? No, I can't let you do that!" He hastily shoved his money onto the countertop and pointed at it. "See? I'll pay for it!"

The old man waved away the money. "Keep it. You might need it for something more important later." He winked at him and scooted towards the back rooms.

T.K. stared at the scattered coins on the counter. Did he really fall so low as to try to bribe old men for beer? He shook his head in disgust and gathered up the coins. The voice of the old man drifted from the back room and into his ears.

"Uh-huh. Yep. Right here, and looking pretty damned raggedy-ass, too. Naw, he ain't hurt. Maybe just his pride. Yeah. Yep. Okay. You come and get him whenever. Trust me, he ain't going nowhere in this kind of weather, or at least not very far. Mmhm. Okay. Bye-bye."

T.K. skulked over to a nearby bench and collapsed on it. Running away had to have been the stupidest idea in the world.

The old man scuffled out of the back room with an orange soda in hand and a bemused look on his face. He came around the counter and handed the soda to T.K. "Here ya go, son."

"Thanks," T.K. grumbled. He reached out and took the bottle, shuddering as the cold glass touched his skin.

The old man stood in front of him for a minute, then asked, "You wanna talk about it?"

"No," T.K. coldly responded.

The old man looked relieved. "Good." He made his way back around the counter and continued to finish the Sudoku puzzle from yesterday's paper.

T.K.'s eyes roamed around the room, taking in all the crazy baubles and knickknacks that covered the walls. He didn't look up when he heard the jingle of the door warning them of a new visitor.

"Hey, John," said a deep voice. T.K. refused to stare at anything but the talking fish head in front of him. He heard the two people converse quietly amongst themselves, then felt the customer sit down next to him.

T.K. swallowed a gulp of his fizzy orange drink and counted the fish's scales.

The two sat in silence, staring in front of them, listening to the rain beat down on the thin glass of the gas station. The old man at the counter hummed tunelessly as he completed the Sudoku puzzle and moved on to the crossword.

_101, 102, 103..._

"T.K.," the man next to him cleared his voice, trying to rid it of deep, pent-up emotion. "You need to come home."

Tears welled up in T.K.'s eyes. He made no move to stop them as they ran down his cheeks. "I know," he hoarsely whispered.

The two brothers stayed in the gas station until the storm let up and wind died down. They then mechanically got up from their bench and moved silently towards the exit, like two wayward souls stumbling down an unknown path. Before leaving, T.K. glanced at the rusty "TIPS" jar on the counter in front of the old man. He moved closer to it and trickled his money in one coin at a time. The old man raised an eyebrow at him.

"A tip for a tip," T.K. told him, and turn around and left.

The old man shook his head and chuckled. "Kids these days."

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_**A/N: **More T.K./Matt bonding. In the original draft, I explained why T.K. had run away in the first place, but it made the story choppy and weird, and by this time I had gotten plum tired of writing flashbacks. But for those of you dying to know, T.K. ran away from home because Matt told him wasn't needed in their family during one of their fights. Soon after, he returned to his mom's house and found out she was getting remarried. He then pulled a Matt and got all angsty and left. Again, this information didn't really add anything to the story, so I just cut it out all together. Please don't hate me too much. ^^_

_On a more serious note, this story is dedicated to my sick grandfather who inspired the old man behind the cash register. He has given me more tips in my life than I'll ever be able to repay back, and I hope he gets better soon._


End file.
